


The only heaven I'll be sent to, is when I'm alone with you.

by 3All_Just_Stories_in_the_End3 (sandwastesinthevoidofmychest)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Attempted Murder, Drowning, Drug Use, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 19:53:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandwastesinthevoidofmychest/pseuds/3All_Just_Stories_in_the_End3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just about an hour ago John was holding his head under water, things are capable of taking unexpected twists as Sherlock had just proved, but he had never expected it to go this way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The only heaven I'll be sent to, is when I'm alone with you.

**A wind of such violence**

**Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.**

**- _Elm,_ Sylvia Plath.**

 

Resilient.

That's what the cabbie had called him.

But the cabbie is dead; John put a bullet through him. Sherlock's face the last thing to pass through his head.

 

The first night, the night John found out was almost straight from a horror.

John's face was on fire, the rage of a soldier flowed through his veins as he grabbed Sherlock and pushed his head into a basin of cold water.

Sherlock knew John was capable of much worse; he had killed the cabbie out of cold blood because he had as much as touched Sherlock. (Well he had drugged him too, but John thought that was once off... {Wrong!}). But what Sherlock hadn't expected was John's rage turned towards himself.

Sherlock was high (so high!). The world was crisp and sharp and exhilarating. Life wasn't boring. No, life was good. It was no longer dark, dull or dreary the way it has been for the past two weeks.

The last two weeks, there had been _nothing_. Sherlock’s brain was on fire and dying at the same time. Nothing was good enough. Not even John.  
This was an emergency.  
So he chose the drugs again, because they had always helped before.   
The mistake was staying at Baker Street.

As a result, Sherlock is being held under ice-cold water and he can feel it pour into his lungs as he desperately struggles for breath. But it’s okay because Sherlock is strong. The problem is that he’s pushing and pushing back against the force of John, but John is retaliating by tightening his grip. The world is going white before his eyes. Sherlock can’t breathe. He can’t breathe, but it’s quiet. This is the first time he can remember it being completely quiet inside his brain. He can’t hear anything. There’s no notifications assessing his perilous situation, no screams alerting him to the close proximity of John. _Nothing._   
It’s glorious and he allows his body to slacken and let the silence sink around him, covering him. He’s free.

It takes him a few seconds to realise his back is against the kitchen lino. His head is lying in a small puddle, dripping from his hair and mixing with the ingrained stains on the floor. His first reaction is disdain against the dirt, and there it is. The noises. It’s gradually getting louder and louder inside his head again. It takes him about a minute to focus on John, who’s kneeling above him, shouting his name. Sherlock likes his name when it rolls off John’s tongue, because in that moment it means John is focussed on him. He revels in it. He’d bathe in it if he could.   
“Sherlock, you fucking twat, say something.” John growls as his fingers dig into Sherlock’s muscles again.   
“John.” It is enough. It should have been today. But it wasn’t. That’s the problem.   
“How much did you take, Sherlock? I’m going to kill you.”   
“Not much…” Sherlock’s voice is weak, his throat aches from the water he inhaled. Sherlock knows that John knows this. What John doesn’t know is that there are stars behind Sherlock’s eyes and John’s the moon, and John’s voice is tin and metallic, but Sherlock is sure that he’ll be okay once John maintains physical contact. Normally, this would have made Sherlock uncomfortable, but now he craves John Watson. He wants all of this glorious man.

But when Sherlock looks at John he wants to scream, he wants to howl at the waxing moon, at the stars that allow them both to be made from the same things. He sees boredom, and it's ripping his chest open. When he looks at John now, he sees boredom. The mundane. Desk job, a wife, a child maybe, normalcy and most of all Sherlock _doesn't see himself_. The worst part the John he is seeing projected off the one who is seething in front of him is that he's happy with that.

It's not until John grabs his shoulders, digging his fingers into Sherlock's muscles, that Sherlock realises he's crying. He needs to do something, anything. He needs to be inside John. He needs to imprint his name on John, sear himself into John's mental fibres so he won't leave, so he'll never leave. He can't watch John crumble away into everyday life. The pain ripping though his chest is making him breathless, his heart is racing, and there is a ringing in his ears. Alarms. Warnings. (The drugs. All the drugs.)

“Goddamn it, Sherlock. How much did you take?” It’s easy for Sherlock to deduce that John is trying his utmost not to hit him, his body is tense and foreboding, but Sherlock feels like he needs it. He is certain.   
“Not enough.” He manages, but realises from the crumbling of John’s face that that answer was _a bit not good (a bit not good) [a bit not good]…_ The words are in John’s voice and they continue to echo as if Sherlock’s listening to a bee fly around a tin can.  
Sherlock can see john is counting; one two three…and then he takes a deep breath. His grip is slackening on Sherlock and Sherlock needs it back. “Just tell me you used a clean needle.” His voice is short and two the point, but Sherlock can detect a slight quiver. (Anger? Fear?)   
“Of course.” Is Sherlock’s quick reply, he bites back saying ‘do you think I’m stupid?’ Because this is not the time.

John gets up and pushes back his shoulders, and walks into the kitchen as though he’s heading to war. He comes back a few minutes later with a cup of green tea and a large glass of water. “You need to hydrate. Plus, seeing as you’re… _crying_ , I think you’re coming down. The caffeine ought to help.” John’s voice had an edge to it, as though what he was saying was of an everyday occurrence. Sherlock’s stomach churns.   
“It’s for you.” Sherlock whispers in between sips of water alternated with gulps of black coffee.

John needs to breathe deeply for a few seconds, he has never seen Sherlock cry genuinely before;  he thought anything akin to actual emotion was a desolate plain for Sherlock.  
“Me?” He questions, he’s careful not to sound as exhausted with this man as he feels.   
Sherlock reaches out and his elegant fingers curl around John’s collar as he pulls him closer. He doesn’t appear to notice that he’s just knocked over both of the drinks, and John freezes. He can feel Sherlock’s breath against his face. Sherlock’s eyes are fixed on John’s and the tears are still rolling down his cheeks. John’s not quite sure if Sherlock’s aware of this.

“You’ve got to promise me that you’ll never go back to being boring John.”  
John’s brows furrow. “Boring?”  
“You can’t leave me. You can’t go and live a normal life, it’d kill you.” Sherlock’s gasping now, as though the thought is armed with a knife that’s been plunged through his chest.   
“Sherlock…” John whispers, “Who said I was leaving?” He’s completely bemused now.  
Sherlock’s knuckles are turning white, “It happens whenever you bring anyone home. It shows that you’re normal. That you want a normal life with someone. Not me. Never me.”   
“Sherlock, I care about you, and when I decide to spend time with other people it’s because I care about them too. I can’t live my life in your pocket. I have to have my own life, one that’s separate to yours, but it doesn’t mean that I’m going to leave you.”   
“It doesn’t rule it out though.”   
“True. Yet it hasn’t been an issue up to now.” John demurs.   
“It’s the possibility.” Sherlock whispers. The tears have stopped, but John thinks that the man looks as though he’s been abandoned.   
John sighs. “That’s life, Sherlock. It’s unpredictable. I can’t promise you anything.”   
Sherlock feels as though the knife in his chest is being twisted as slowly and as painfully as possible.

Sherlock’s crying again. The tears are caressing his cheeks. He can’t help it. He feels like falling off a building will be the only thing that will make everything right. John is still kneeling before him, brows furrowed. “Sherlock breathe. You’re just coming down off the high.” His voice isn’t furious anymore, it rests on a concerned note.  
John is blurry through the tears. They are burning Sherlock’s eyes and he can see the hole is his chest tearing along with the one in his brain. It’s eradicating files in the cold cases filing area. This is a first. He has injected cocaine many times, but it filled him and made him feel real again, it never destroyed him. But here he is sitting in front of John crying and laboriously breathing. All he can think about is John and the holes in him that are widening by the minute. Maybe he’s dying. Sherlock’s mouth twitches into what should be a smile, but it more twisted and desperate instead.

“If you ever leave me…” Sherlock’s voice trails off, realising that what he wants to say to John would be classed as not good. He’s surprised he manages to filter the thoughts, what with the burning hole that’s cutting through his brain. John raises a brow.   
“Was that going to be a threat?” He asks quietly.  
Sherlock shrugs absently, he thinks his heart is slowing down. “What does it matter?”   
John places his hand on Sherlock’s arm, and squeezes it tight. “Everything matters.”  
Sherlock scoffs and leans forward, resting his head on John’s shoulder. John freezes against the unexpected contact. He has been in close proximity with Sherlock before now, but never voluntarily. The closeness was always due to some dire situation. Not that this wasn’t one, after all John could feel Sherlock’s tears soak into the material on his shirt.

John takes note that Sherlock’s breathing has slowed down. He’s pretty sure this means that Sherlock has stopped crying, but he can’t be sure as Sherlock hasn’t moved since he laid his head on John’s shoulder. This was so alien for John to see. He raises his spare hand and places it on the detective’s back. Sherlock mumbles something that John can’t quite make out. “What was that?” He asks gently, he’s hoping Sherlock’s over the worst of the drugs now but he can’t be sure.   
“I need you.” Sherlock’s voice is hoarse and there is a note of desperation. “Don’t leave me.”  
John closes his eyes and rests his head on Sherlock’s head. “I never said I was leaving.”  
“There’s a hole in my head and in my chest.” Sherlock breathes.   
John can only hold the man tighter. He never would have imagined Sherlock as someone who was capable of being vulnerable like this. “It’ll go away.” John says into Sherlock’s hair. “It’s just the drugs.”

Sherlock is breathing in John’s scent. It’s familiar, it’s homely, and it’s _safe_. His skin is on fire where John is in contact with him. John says that he’s not leaving, but that makes Sherlock’s stomach flutter because it doesn’t mean that he’s never going to leave and live a happy life without Sherlock. All his brain is shouting is John’s name. He needs to convince John to stay. Sherlock moves his head, so that he is now inches from John’s face. “Stay.” He whispers, and maybe it’s the drugs, or maybe it’s what he’s wanted to do since he saw that he could cure John’s limp, but Sherlock closes the distance between them and their lips meet.   
It’s not gentle, it’s not ‘loving’. It’s vicious and desperate, leaning on the edge of violence.   
Sherlock has pushed John down to the floor. The impact of the hard wood on John’s back makes a break in the intense silence that has shrouded 221b.

Sherlock is straddling John, bent over him and begging for entry to John’s mouth. John softens beneath him and momentarily flinches at the coldness of Sherlock’s skin against him. He can’t help but moan when Sherlock bites down on his lip and this move enables Sherlock to get his first real taste of John. His lips were one thing, but the inside of his mouth is something to be catalogued and recited in honour of the man. Sherlock is trying to fill up the holes in his head and his chest with John. He’s trying to fill them with every breath and every noise that John makes beneath him. Sherlock feels like he is alive, as though he is capable of moving mountains.   
This feels better than the drugs.

Sherlock moves away from John’s mouth and trails kisses down his neck. John is moaning quietly and Sherlock thinks he might just loose it when John whispers his name with a pained note in his voice. This distracts Sherlock and before he knows it, John has grabbed him by the shoulders and with his army strength, he has rolled around so that Sherlock is now positioned below John. John intertwines their fingers above Sherlock’s head. Sherlock notices John’s chest is rising and falling quicker than ever before; even though he has run with John through dark London alleyways in the dead of night. “This is stopping here, Sherlock.”   
Sherlock can only stare at John as though he has just been slapped in the face. Just about an hour ago John was holding his head under water, things are capable of taking unexpected twists as Sherlock had just proved, but he had never expected it to go this way.

“Don’t, Sherlock. Don’t look at me like that. The drugs are still in your system. For all I know, you don’t even know what you’re doing right now.” John lowers his head and visibly deflates before Sherlock’s eyes. “I know that didn’t stop me reacting. I know. What I’m saying is that I need to be sure of this. So when you’re clean, if you remember this, we can talk about it. Until then, I need you to go to bed and sleep it off, okay?”  
Sherlock feels like the air has been drained out of him. How could John not see that he has been diligently cataloguing every single movement and sound that has just occurred? All he can do is nod once, slowly.   
John releases Sherlock’s fingers and gets up and whispers a quiet goodnight before walking out of the sitting room and up to his bedroom. Sherlock is left lying on the floor. His head is filling with noise once again. He gets up, unsteady on his feet and stumbles towards the medicine press. He glimpses trough the packets and finds John’s old prescription sleeping pills. He shakes out the bones of the bottle and swallows them dry. He paces around the kitchen waiting for the shutdown. When the world around him begins to flicker, Sherlock stumbles toward his bedroom.

The next morning, John comes down for breakfast. Overnight he has thought a lot about Sherlock. He has come to the difficult decision that he is not going to mention last night unless Sherlock broaches the subject. Yes, he will threaten Sherlock about the drugs, but he won’t bring up their encounter. He wonders whether Sherlock actually got any sleep last night, it was unheard of. Almost immediately he notices the empty bottle of his old medication that he hadn’t needed to make use of since he started solving cases with Sherlock. For a second he worries, but then remembers that there couldn’t possibly have been enough in the bottle to cause serious harm. Anyway, for the first time ever he can hear light snores erupting from Sherlock’s room. He begins to eat his breakfast, all the while thinking of Sherlock. He feels a surge of anger when he thinks about how the detective risks ruining his brain when he does something as stupid as take any form of drug. Then he thinks about him and Sherlock. Normally Sherlock wouldn’t broach his feelings, so John feels a twinge of resignation that comes with lowering expectations. In another way he knows he will never mean as much as the cases to Sherlock, but he thinks he can understand that. After all, it’s the cases that keep both of them sane. However, the drugs, he doesn’t know how to feel about that. He thinks about how Sherlock lay heaving on the floor, coughing up the water from his lungs and he can’t help but feel the guilt in knowing that it could have ended up so much worse.   
After all, John would be well capable of it.

Three days have passed, and John has not seen Sherlock yet. He has heard him ramble around his room. He has not yet come out for food or drink and John is worried. John feels as if he should do something, yet he knows that he should not interrupt Sherlock when he is in one of his contemplative moods. Mrs Hudson comes up at midday for a cup of coffee and to talk to John. She wonders out loud whether John has found a girlfriend yet. The quiet scrape of the violin that had been coming from Sherlock’s room goes silent and John feels uncomfortable in his seat. He shakes his head once, and Mrs Hudson throws her head back laughing saying that the right person might be closer than he knows. She gives him a knowing look before getting up to leave, touching him lightly on the shoulder. This all leaves John wondering what Sherlock’s disappearing acts downstairs really consisted of and if they were talks about John himself. The violin music has started once again.

Later that night, John has fallen asleep as a result of the boredom of a mundane reality TV show, which makes him question the sanity of the people who appeared on it. He doesn’t hear Sherlock’s bedroom door open, or the kettle boiling. It’s only when he feels the light squeeze of a hand on his shoulder that he wakes up with a start. Sherlock is paler than usual and there are dark circles under his eyes. “John.” Sherlock’s voice is hoarse from lack of use. He is sitting on the arm of John’s armchair. He wrings his hands together, clearly nervous.   
“Are you okay? Do you want something to eat?” John questions, he is sticking to his resolve of not mentioning what happened until Sherlock does.   
“I think we need to talk about what happened.” Sherlock says with some sense of conviction. When John just nods, Sherlock takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a few seconds. “I remember everything. Sometimes it’s like there are holes ripping me apart from the inside out and the cases help, but you help too. I liked kissing you. I’m incredibly fond of you, John.” Sherlock glances at John to see whether he is smiling or not. John is. “I’d like to kiss you again. Then some more.” Sherlock blushes, the contrast against his pale skin makes John laugh. “You’re an idiot.” The smile can be heard in John’s voice.   
Sherlock manages to crack a smile, “What I’m asking is can we be together? I mean, keep doing what we’re doing and stay together?”   
“We can.” John says quietly, “But if you ever feel the need to touch drugs again, I will not be held responsible for my actions.” The anger is back in John’s voice and Sherlock flinches slightly.   
“I’ll try come to you.” Sherlock whispers.

There is a few moments of silence between them, and Sherlock gingerly reaches out his hand to hold John’s. John smiles and squeezes his hand. “Can I kiss you now?” Sherlock whispers. John laughs out loud, his eyes sparkling. “Get down here you idiot.” He cries endearingly, as he grabs Sherlock by the lapels of his suit jacket, pulling him down on top of him. They both lean forward this time, allowing their lips to meet. The kiss is not as desperate as it had been before, but there was an intense eagerness between the both of them as they breathed into each other and inhaled each other’s scents.

This is not the same as a substitute for the drugs, or a promise of never leaving, but it is here and now. Nothing is permanent, but at this moment they hope that this will last until the day where life fades away and nothing no longer matters.   
After all, right now they matter. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first work I have written in ages, I hope it suffices. 
> 
> The title of this work, and the song that inspired it is 'Take me to church', by Hozier.   
> It can be found on youtube or on his bandcamp site, where his E.P can be downloaded for free. 
> 
> Thank you for reading & enjoy!


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